


The Dancer

by paleolithic_demitasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, John Plays Rugby, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, TUJC Challenge 1, Teen John, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Texting, Unilock, Winter Holidays Challenge, balletlock, new year's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleolithic_demitasse/pseuds/paleolithic_demitasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s beautiful. <i>It’s all John can think. Limbs soaring through the air with a grace unfamiliar to John, who knows how to run and how to catch and how to tackle but not how to <i>dance</i>, the boy spinning across the floor of the dance studio that has turned into a stage under his twirling feet is the most captivating piece of art John has ever lost himself in. He couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. (Not that he wants to anyway. </i> What a crime that would be, <i> he thinks, shaking his head unconsciously.) <i></i></i></p><p> John and Sherlock admire each other from afar before they're brought together in unlikely ways. Whether those be a forgotten phone, a chance encounter or a party on New Year's Eve, there's something there that neither of them want to admit (or deny).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancer

I

 _He’s beautiful_. It’s all John can think. Limbs soaring through the air with a grace unfamiliar to John, who knows how to run and how to catch and how to tackle but not how to _dance_ , the boy spinning across the floor of the dance studio that has turned into a stage under his twirling feet is the most captivating piece of art John has ever lost himself in. He couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. (Not that he wants to anyway. W _hat a crime that would be_ , he thinks, shaking his head unconsciously.)

John stares through the glass at the top of the door that leads into the studio, watching its lone occupant fill the near-empty room with an energy that John recognizes from the rugby pitch. The passion and dedication, the invisible fire kindled by something inside your chest that had one day called out to you and never stopped. That was what John felt on the pitch – not as if he owned it, but as if he owned his life and the feeling of living it properly. There was something different about this, though. Instead of the domineering grit and roughness of rugby, this new spirit of equal intensity was made up of precision and power, exactness and strength, beauty and grace, concentration and a depth that John hadn’t ever seen in his life, and suspected that he never would again outside of that room. Perhaps ballet and rugby were incomparable. Perhaps they were just too different. Perhaps, even though John knows nothing about ballet, the feeling growing in his chest is just a little bit too ridiculous to ever amount to anything at all-

Perhaps there were better things to focus on.

Unaware that he is being watched, the dancer continues his practice, never stopping, even when his balance shakes and he flails, on the edge of some invisible precipice that he alone can see. An arm raised like this, a leg swaying like that, a leap forward just so; John can practically see the outside world falling away, reality crumbling into a half-remembered dream in his peripheral vision as he watches this captivating dance. It feels strangely intimate to be watching something so private and so beautiful. John blushes as he realizes that he’s probably intruding, but isn’t embarrassed enough to look away and continue toward whatever lecture he was meant to be at. That could definitely wait.

John hadn’t actually seen his university’s dance studio until Mike Stamford had introduced him to a shortcut to get to the furthest lecture hall from the rugby pitch a couple of weeks ago after John had arrived to a lecture 20 minutes late. Over the last week, he’d walked past it at least half a dozen times, but had only ever seen it empty, unused. That is, until now. Suddenly, John is more thankful than ever for Mike’s shortcut.

Still watching the dancer with what was probably a quite dreamy expression on his face, John contemplated missing that lecture he was meant to be at entirely. Dropping the bag containing his rugby kit onto the ground next to his feet, John leans carefully against the door, all thoughts of moving long forgotten as the dynamism of the dance consumes his every sense. He can feel the waves of concentration emanating from the dancer, and is awestruck by his incredible body doing incredible things. The dancer is a pale-skinned young man with curly dark hair who looks to be around his age (John crosses his fingers) whose eyes are tightly closed in other-worldly concentration. His toned extremities and the way he not just carries himself but leaps effortlessly across the room would have marked him as a strong opponent in a rugby match despite his slender frame. John almost laughs. Something tells him that the pitch is the last place he’d ever find this particular boy. John has never seen him before, so he probably doesn’t go to this university. He tries to stop his face from falling at the thought of the dancer’s practices in this studio being irregular and uncommon, and fails spectacularly. Nonetheless, he soon reclaims the appropriate face of the wonderstruck audience to this singular performance.

Abruptly, the dancer stiffens, stopping mid-turn with his back to John, seemingly fixated on his reflection in the mirror that spans the length of the room. John stands on his toes, trying to get a better look at the boy, searching the mirror for an indication of why the dancer has stopped.

Just as suddenly as he stopped, the dancer rushes almost out of John’s line of view towards the side of the room, where he dives towards a bag that he slings hastily across his shoulder. In seconds, he’s left the dance studio through another door that John hadn’t noticed in his fixation with the dancer himself.

John bursts into the room, a strangled “Wait!” barely escaping his lips as he throws himself into the studio. A swinging door on the opposite side of the room greets his cry, mocking him without words.

He hurries through the door, hoping to catch sight of the dancer - and if he’s feeling particularly ambitious, maybe even try for a conversation involving full sentences and intelligible comments other than _my God you’re beautiful_ – but he knows he’s too late. Standing still in the corridor he’s scanning up and down again and again for any clue as to where the dancer might have gone, John looks very lost for someone who knows the university campus rather well. Head hung in defeat, John huffs his disappointment as he trudges back through the dance studio to collect the bag he left outside. As he makes his way across the room, a shine in the corner of his eye stops him in his stride. Turning around slowly, John stares in disbelief at the slick black phone lying on the ground where the dancer’s bag had been.

Walking slowly towards it, John’s eyebrows crease into a frown as he bends to pick up the phone. It wasn’t easy to be in such a hurry that you forget your phone on the floor of, well, anywhere. Maybe the dancer had somewhere he needed to be. _Or maybe_ , sneered a voice in the back of his head, _he saw the creep standing outside his dance studio staring at him practice and did the sensible thing: he ran away_.

Ignoring the unfounded guilt building in his stomach, John turns the phone over in his hands a few times before pressing the small sliver button on the right side that he assumes will turn it on. His eyes widen as he looks at the background image that pops up, staring at him accusingly. It’s a picture of the dark-haired dancer mid-leap, in the same fitting black clothes John had seen him practicing in. He looks like an illustration in a story, too perfect to be real. John smiles, basking in the familiar feeling of butterflies in his stomach that the image is giving him. _Here we go again, Watson_ , he thinks helplessly to himself.

_Slide to unlock._

Sighing, he swipes a finger across the screen, waiting for a home screen to appear. Maybe he could find the number of one of the dancer’s friends and let them know he had their mate’s phone?

_Please enter password._

The words smirk up at him. If white lights in the shape of letters on the screen of a stranger’s phone could look smug, then these ones were as pleased as the (metaphorical) cat who got the (figurative) cream.

John sighs, pocketing the phone as he leaves the dance studio. This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

 

II

_DECEMBER 4 TH, 10:22 am_

_Incoming call._

_(Number blocked)_

“Hello?”

“5646.”

_Call has been terminated._

-

_DECEMBER 4 TH, 10:27 am_

_Slide to unlock._

_Please enter password._

5646.

_Password accepted._

_Log_

_Recent calls:_ (Number blocked)

 _Options:_ Call | Text | Add to Contacts

-

_DECEMBER 4 TH_

Hi

_Text unsent, 10:31 am_

 

Hey

_Text unsent, 10:33 am_

 

I’m John, who are y

_Text unsent, 10:34 am_

Hey so I’ve got your phone and

_Text unsent, 10:34 am_

 

So do you want your phone back or wha

_Text unsent, 10:35 am_

 

You’re an incredible dancer

_Text unsent, 10:37 am_

…So

_Text unsent, 10:39 am_

 

I’m John.

_Text **sent** , 10:52 am_

 

Pleased to meet you.

_Text **received** , 2:21 pm_

 

YOU REPLIED!!!!!!

_Text unsent, 2:36 pm_

You left your phone in the ballet room

_Text **sent** , 2:38 pm_

 

Yes, I know. Why do you think I gave you my pass-code?

_Text **received** , 2:39 pm_

 

oh yeah, good point

_Text unsent, 2:40 pm_

 

So…. do you want it back?

_Text **sent** , 2:42 pm_

 

The phone currently in your possession, you mean? Why would I want it back? As you know, I have another one.

_Text **received** , 2:42 pm_

 

I don’t know anything about you - how should I know how many phones you have???

_Text **sent** , 2:45 pm_

 

Because I’ve been texting you for the past 25 minutes.

_Text **received** , 2:46 pm_

Idiot.

_Text **received** , 2:46 pm_

 

Fuuuuuwftwsxyedefoeeo

_Text unsent, 2:47 pm_

 

Right. Yes. I’m sorry

_Text unsent, 2:48 pm_

 

If I’m such an idiot, then why are you still texting me, hmm??

_Text **sent** , 2:51 pm_

 

?????

_Text **sent** , 2:56 pm_

Hello???????

_Text **sent** , 3:01 pm_

 

Damn it

_Text unsent, 3:43 pm_

 

Please come back

_Text unsent, 4:09 pm_

_DECEMBER 5 th_

You there??

_Text **sent** , 8:11 am_

Are you ignoring me?

_Text unsent, 8:13 am_

 

Was it something I said??

_Text **sent** , 8:21 am_

I’m still here, you know.

_Text **sent** , 2:09 pm_

 

And I’m going to keep on texting you

_Text **sent** , 2:10 pm_

Until you reply

_Text **sent** , 2:10 pm_

So it kind of sucks that I’m an impatient person by nature but WHATEVER

_Text unsent, 2:12 pm_

 

You still haven’t replied, in case you were unsure

_Text **sent** , 7:34 pm_

 

Just thought I’d remind you.

_Text **sent** , 7:35 pm_

If you have replied, it hasn’t come through, so maybe you could try sending it again

_Text **sent** , 7:41 pm_

Please.

_Text **sent** , 7:41 pm_

Pretty please

_Text **sent** , 7:43 pm_

 

Alright fine I’ll just keep bugging you in the morning

_Text **sent** , 11:21 pm_

Sleep well

_Text unsent, 11:25 pm_

 

DECEMBER 8TH

Day 4: still no reply from the idiot who lost his phone

_Text **sent** , 12:57 pm_

 

And I’m beginning to think he’s either dropped dead

_Text **sent** , 12:59 pm_

Or lost 2 phones in 1 week

_Text **sent** , 1:00 pm_

If it is the latter, then congratulations! That’s probably some sort of record

_Text **sent** , 1:04 pm_

Well bloody done

_Text unsent, 1:05 pm_

For all your record setting, I do wish you could make the time to talk to me

_Text unsent, 1:07 pm_

HEY YOU.

_Text **sent** , 7:14 pm_

YES, YOU

_Text **sent** , 7:14 pm_

CHECK YOUR PHONE

_Text **sent** , 7:14 pm_

AND PLEASE, FINALLY

_Text **sent** , 7:14 pm_

ANSWER

_Text **sent** , 7:14 pm_

ME.

_Text **sent** , 7:15 pm_

 

Is it really so hard to just pick up the phone and repl

_Text unsent, 10:28 pm_

 

Why won’t you answer me

_Text **sent** , 11:49 pm_

If it is something I said, I’m sorry.

_Text **sent** , 11:50 pm_

I really am

_Text **sent** , 11:50 pm_

I liked talking to you.

_Text **sent** , 11:56 pm_

It was fun

_Text **sent** , 11:56 pm_

But if you don’t want to do it again

_Text **sent** , 11:59 pm_

_DECEMBER 9 TH_

The least you could do is tell me

_Text **sent** , 12:00 am_

 

But it’s fine

_Text **sent** , 12:02 am_

It’s all fine

_Text **sent** , 12:03 am_

I’ll just talk to myself, yeah?

_Text **sent** , 12:04 am_

Hello John

_Text **sent** , 12:04 am_

Oh, hi there John

_Text **sent** , 12:04 am_

 

How are you this morning John?

_Text **sent** , 12:05 am_

Fine, thank you very much for asking, John. And how are you?

_Text **sent** , 12:05 am_

Great, just great, apart from needing three weeks’ worth of sleep (that or a very big coffee) and actual person to talk to

_Text **sent** , 12:05 am_

The his conversation is not quite as interest ting as I hoped

_Text **sent** , 12:07 am_

Good night

_Text **sent** , 12:11 am_

Or good morning, whichever rrrr suits you

_Text **sent** , 12:12 am_

 

Sorry for a all the messages I just real lee like you

_Text unsent, 12:12 am_

:)

_Text unsent, 12:13 am_

 

III

Sherlock Holmes wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck as a gust of mid-December air raced past him. He stuffed his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat and wished that he didn’t have to cross half the campus of this ridiculous university to get to the dance studio. For goodness’ sake, he didn’t even attend here! Huffing with an irritability that was not helped by the cold weather, Sherlock continued his trudge to the studio.

As he twisted his hands in his pockets, searching for the last remnants of warmth in his rapidly numbing fingers, Sherlock nearly froze as he felt the still unfamiliar shape of his substitute phone (stolen from Mycroft when he had come around last week, obviously). Narrowing his eyes, whether against the winter breeze or in annoyance at his own incompetence was anyone’s guess, Sherlock broke into a new, brisker pace as he tried his best not to hate John Watson.

Unfortunately, it was quite impossible to do so.

Suddenly the December air was replaced by the memory of a slightly less freezing day in November and a rather uncharacteristic agreement to an associate of Sherlock’s. Although said associate would probably introduce himself as one of Sherlock’s ‘mates’, to call him a friend would have been pushing it; Sherlock didn’t have _friends_. Greg Lestrade, after weeks of nattering and cajoling, had finally wore Sherlock down enough for him to not-so-graciously accept Greg’s invitation – read: non-negotiable instruction – to come watch his game of rugby at the university that Sherlock danced at. At no small cost to himself (after all, those samples for the his experiment concerning the growth of moss in varying temperatures weren't going to grow themselves) Sherlock had agreed to come see the game, and in return Greg would not ‘invite’ him to see any further matches that his team may or may not be participating in, which was fine by Sherlock.

Not five minutes into the game, Sherlock realized he had made a big mistake. Player 9, the number printed proudly on the back of his uniform, had caught Sherlock’s eye from the second the two teams had stepped onto the pitch. Sandy blonde hair shone in the bright sunshine as Number Nine strode forwards with a confidence that dominated the ground he stood on. Sherlock had never seen someone so in control of anything, much less themselves – he couldn’t take his eyes off him.

An hour later, at the end of the match, Sherlock had gone to find Greg under the pretense of offering congratulations on a good game. (Whatever that meant – Sherlock had no knowledge about any sport other than dance, and even less desire to learn.) Greg had lapped it up, despite their team winning to the opposition who Sherlock had to try very hard to not think of as ‘Number Nine’s team’, or simply ‘Number Nine.’ When Sherlock asked – subtly, of course – about the powerful blond on the other team, Greg had been happy to tell him all about rugby legend John Watson, who was revered as one of the strongest players in the league. Nodding casually through Greg’s obvious worship of the boy, Sherlock had taken full advantage of the excuse to look some more at John Watson.

When Sherlock had discovered that John studied at the same university he had watched him play rugby at, which of course _had_ to be the only one with a decent open dance studio that Sherlock’s own campus lacked, Sherlock hadn’t known whether to give in to the excitement or the anxiety that followed him around the university grounds on his way to practice like a smug, knowing ghost. Sherlock could practically imagine an invisible personification of one of the many smirking arseholes he had to put up with every day of his on his heels everywhere he went.

And then, Sherlock had seen John in the mirror of the dance studio, standing outside as he practiced. Watching. For a second, it had been incredible. The look of pure amazement on John’s face had made him literally stop still. In that moment, Sherlock truly believed that his dancing was as good as he was continually told by those who saw it, and he had been caught between bliss and self-consciousness. The embarrassment had won over and Sherlock had rushed out as soon as he’d realized he had an audience, only just managing to exit the dance studio before John had followed, but left his phone behind and opened the page to a new chapter of a book Sherlock didn’t know if he wanted to reach the end of, lest the ending be a probable, realistic one. What he would have said if John had caught him, he had no idea. Probably something very rude or very stupid.

Shaking his head in disdain, Sherlock wrenched himself back to the present. One gloved hand was still wrapped around his phone. He took it out, sighing to himself. Fifty seven new texts; of course, there would be. Sherlock cringed inwardly. Since his initial conversation with John, he hadn’t replied to any of his messages, although it often seemed he had done little but think about it. Hundreds of replies, of witty one-liners and sarcastic observations, playful comments and bored responses wrote themselves into existence in his mind without repose. They filled every quiet moment, every empty space in Sherlock’s life and it was rapidly evolving from a concern to an obsession. During class, while dancing, on the Tube on his way back to his flat – there was no escaping what Sherlock was intentionally avoiding.

How something, how _someone_ , had inserted itself (himself) so completely into Sherlock’s thoughts remained a mystery. Sherlock knew he was an intelligent person, and this kind of obsessive behaviour was a sure symptom of the kind of foolhardiness he so freely criticized in everyone else. And yet, here it was, sullying his own mind, spreading through him like a disease.

There was only one way out of this: text him back. Something told Sherlock that unless he stepped up to this it would continue to beat him down until he became either a nervous wreck or a manic antisocial. Admittedly, many would already describe him as the latter.

With only one sensible option left, Sherlock pulled out his phone. Naturally, his fingers froze over the keypad as soon as he pulled up his and John’s conversation, which was now littered with variations of ‘hi’ and ‘hello’ and ‘where the hell did you go?’. While doing his best not to feel guilty, the gears of Sherlock’s mind ground into movement as he tried to formulate a response.

Was ‘Hello’ too casual, too understated— should it be followed by ‘How are you?’ or was that too personal? ‘I’m sorry for not replying sooner’ could be seen as insincere, but might it lessen the sting to include an excuse— or would that seem fake as well? Should he apologize at all, or maybe try for a more general ‘I’ve been busy’? Hell, should he reply at all?

Sherlock glared at his phone as if it was intentionally withholding the answer. He was so fixated that he almost didn’t notice that he had walked directly into someone, and probably wouldn’t have registered it at all if it hadn’t been for the rushed ‘Sorry!’ that followed. Feeling somewhere near the appropriate amount of remorse that this kind of careless situation called for, Sherlock looked up from his phone and turned around to apologize back. He’d normally never bother, but Sherlock felt stupid that he was letting this distract him. Whoever it was had rushed on, his own focus attached to the phone in his hand. Sherlock watched from over his shoulder as the boy shook his head, his blond hair far brighter than his apparent mood. Hands in pockets, head down, sports bag (probably rugby judging by the shape of the contents) that had been perched on a shoulder but was now trailing near the ground in his hand; clearly waiting for a reply that hadn’t come yet. _I wonder what_ that _feels like_ , Sherlock thought angrily at himself, still unsure of what to send—

Wait. Oh, no.

The blond hair. The sports bag. _No way. Not a chance. The probability of it being him is no minute it’s nearly—_ Sherlock whirled around to face the receding figure of the boy he bumped into. His familiar figure, committed to memory so accurately it was embarrassing, left no doubt in Sherlock’s mind.

He had literally walked right into John Watson.

Immediately, a whirlwind of thoughts picked up in his mind as conflicting emotions blew past him. Rain roared and thunder crashed as Sherlock considered his options. He could say something; he could say nothing. He could carry on; he could turn around. He could let John know now that he had walked past him; he could text him about it later; he could never mention to him. Fear of discovery and all it entailed tangled with the elation of possibly having a real and proper conversation with John Watson. The storm in Sherlock’s mind left him paralyzed until the apprehension won out. With a sharp intake of breath and a great deal of restraint to stop him from looking back, Sherlock carried on.

When he reached the door of the dance studio where John had stood just a week ago, Sherlock stopped. He checked his watch. 9:57 read the delicate hands; that left him three minutes before he was supposed to begin practice for the day. Three minutes to figure out what he wanted to say to the boy he had never (but almost) met.

 

IV

_DECEMBER 11 TH_

Hello Watson.

_Text **received** , 10:00 am_

 

How do you know my last name????

_Text **sent** , 10:02 am_

I saw your rugby match at the end of last month.

_Text **received** , 10:09 am_

So you’ve seen me play

_Text **sent** , 10:10 am_

Yes.

_Text **received** , 10:10 am_

And I’ve seen you dance

_Text **sent** , 10:10 am_

Well, fair’s fair, I suppose.

_Text **received** , 10:12 am_

 

Not quite. I still don’t know YOUR name

_Text **sent** , 10:13 am_

 

And why should I tell you that?

_Text **received** , 10:16 am_

 

Because you know my name and I’ve seen you dance

_Text **sent** , 10:18 am_

 

That hardly makes us friends.

_Text **received** , 10:18 am_

 

Sow hat???

_Text unsent, 10:19 am_

 

ouch

_Text unsent, 10:19 am_

Doesn’t mean I don’t like you

_Text **sent** , 10:24 am_

 

Don’t

_Text **received** , 10:25 am_

Don’t what????

_Text **sent** , 10:26 am_

Say something you don’t mean, or that you’ll regret.

_Text **received** , 10:28 am_

 

And why exactly would I fall under 1 of those categories??

_Text **sent** , 10:29 am_

 

_DECEMBER 12 TH_

Because no one does

_Text **received** , 1:56 pm_

Like me, I mean.

_Text **received** , 1:56 pm_

 

I can see why. No one likes it when someone disappears on them mid-conversation

_Text **sent** , 2:12 pm_

 

Sorry

_Text **sent** , 4:34 pm_

I shouldn’t have said that

_Text **sent** , 4:35 pm_

 

It’s like you said – I shouldn’t say anything I don’t mean

_Text **sent** , 4:37 pm_

 

And why wouldn’t you mean what you said?

_Text **received** , 4:37 pm_

 

Because I do like you, and I don’t mind

_Text **sent** , 4:42 pm_

 

That you sometimes don’t reply

_Text **sent** , 4:42 pm_

I like you just the same

_Text **sent** , 4:42 pm_

Sherlock.

_Text **received** , 5:01 pm_

 

What’s that, now??

_Text **sent** , 5:03 pm_

My name. You asked for it, so there it is.

_Text **received** , 5:03 pm_

 

Thank you

_Text **sent** , 5:03 pm_

Mr. Holmes

_Text **sent** , 5:04 pm_

Before you ask

_Text **sent** , 5:04 pm_

 

How the hell do you know my surname?

_Text **received** , 5:04 pm_

*sigh* I have your phone, genius

_Text **sent** , 5:05 pm_

Contacts, previous texts, notes and all

_Text **sent** , 5:06 pm_

Don’t read those!

_Text **received** , 5:06 pm_

 

And why not????

_Text **sent** , 5:07 pm_

 

They’re private, obviously.

_Text **received** , 5:07 pm_

Please.

_Text **received** , 5:08 pm_

Thank you

_Text **sent** , 5:08 pm_

 

For what?

_Text **received** , 5:08 pm_

For asking so nicely.

_Text **sent** , 5:09 pm_

Anyway, I wasn’t planning on looking at any of that stuff

_Text **sent** , 5:10 pm_

 

I just wanted to know your name

_Text **sent** , 5:11pm_

 

So why did you ask me for it?

_Text **received** , 5:14 pm_

 

……..

_Text unsent, 5:14 pm_

 

I don’t know

_Text unsent, 5:15 pm_

 

Because I wanted you to tell me

_Text unsent, 5:18 pm_

Because I want to get to know you

_Text unsent, 5:19 pm_

Because I want you to like me

_Text unsent, 5:21 pm_

 

John?

_Text **received** , 6:00 pm_

 

I was under the impression that it was frowned upon to abandon one’s conversational partner.

_Text **received** , 6:00 pm_

I’m sorry

_Text unsent, 6:01 pm_

 

And after all, I thought that was my role in this relationship

_Text **received** , 6:01 pm_

You actually got me to laugh at a bad joke of yours. I love that

_Text unsent, 6:02 pm_

Admit it, you laughed at that.

_Text **received** , 6:03 pm_

I like you more and more every time you text me

_Text unsent, 8:21 pm_

Still nothing?

_Text **received** , 9:00 pm_

Goodnight John.

_Text **received** , 9:02 pm_

You can’t actually be going to sleep now, that would indicate a healthy sleep schedule, and no WAY do you have one of those

_Text unsent, 9:05 pm_

 

Goodnight Sherlock

_Text unsent, 9:17 pm_

 

_DECEMBER 13 TH_

Morning, and alas, no reply.

_Text **received** , 7:42 am_

 

Come now, John, you of all people must know how irritating radio silence can be.

_Text **received** , 7:42 am_

Yeah, no thanks to you

_Text **sent** , 7:47 am_

He lives! John, inform the Church, I believe we’ve just witnessed a miracle.

_Text **received** , 7:47 am_

I was nowhere near as sarcastic as this when you finally re-acknowledged my existence

_Text **sent** , 7:48 am_

I think it’s fair to say that I am generally a more sarcastic person than yourself.

_Text **received** , 7:49 am_

No argument there

_Text **sent** , 7:51 am_

 

So

_Text **sent** , 8:12 am_

So.

_Text **received** , 8:12 am_

What now????

_Text **sent** , 8:16 am_

You tell me.

_Text **received** , 8:17 am_

Are you practicing today??

_Text **sent** , 8:32 am_

 

If you’re either making polite conversation or genuinely interested in my dance schedule for purely innocent reasons, then yes.

_Text **received** , 8:46 am_

 

However, if you plan on asking for or assuming you have an invitation to watch me practice, then the answer is most emphatically no.

_Text **received** , 8:46 am_

Ok

_Text **sent** , 10:09 am_

Thank you.

_Text **received** , 9:57 pm_

I still think you’re an incredible dancer

_Text unsent, 10:03 pm_

 

S’okay

_Text unsent, 10:05 pm_

No problem

_Text unsent, 10:06 pm_

 

It’s all fine

_Text **sent** , 10:11 pm_

Just like your dancing

 _Text unsent_ , 10:12 pm

 

_DECEMBER 15 TH_

Okay so. You haven’t texted me in 2 days. To be fair, I haven’t texted you either, BUT I HAVE initiated most of our conversations so far, so it’s about time you held up your end of

_Text unsent, 2:36 pm_

 

How are you?

_Text unsent, 2:39 pm_

Are you busy?

_Text unsent, 2:40 pm_

Have you been busy lately?

_Text unsent, 2:40 pm_

Are you dancing? Asking for purely innocent reasons actually no I don’t mean that so I won’t say it but I do mean this: I have thought about your beautiful dancing since I first saw it

_Text unsent, 2:44 pm_

 

Sherlock

_Text **sent** , 5:37 pm_

Sherlock????

_Text **sent** , 6:04 pm_

Now who’s being unresponsive

_Text **sent** , 8:17 pm_

Again

_Text **sent** , 8:19 pm_

Whatever good night

_Text **sent** , 11:21 pm_

 

_DECEMBER 20 TH_

It’s been a while.

_Text **sent** , 9:58 am_

Just thought I’d check how you were

_Text **sent** , 9:58 am_

_DECEMBER 21 ST_

Alright I know we’re both rubbish at replying sometimes but it’s been 8 DAYS. More than A WEEK.

_Text **sent** , 1:26 pm_

Please let me know that you are NOT DEAD

_Text **sent** , 1:28 pm_

John, as valiant as your efforts to keep in touch with me are, I would appreciate it if you didn’t keep trying to contact me out of whatever social obligation or pity you may feel.

_Text **received** , 1:33 pm_

WHAT tHE F

_Text unsent, 2:12 pm_

 

What the fucking fuck are you fucking on about?????????

_Text unsent, 2:12 pm_

What the fuck are you on about????

_Text unsent, 2:12 pm_

What the hell gave you that impression????

_Text **sent** , 2:13 pm_

 

Call it a hunch.

_Text **received** , 2:27 pm_

 

Based on what??????????????

_Text **sent** , 2:29 pm_

 

You didn’t text for 2 days, then proceeded to make a passive-aggressive attempt to start a conversation before not texting for another 5 days and then, perhaps feeling bad for your lack of communication, made a polite, general inquiry after me for 2 days running until I finally replied, although I do believe that after a few more days of unresponsiveness you would have made the correct, sensible decision and stopped texting me. Moreover, this reaction contextualized as your response to my… sharp remarks regarding your interest in my dancing only makes sense as the actions of yet another recipient of my unpleasant nature who is (rightly) offended and desires no further contact with me. I was only carrying out your wishes by not responding.

_Text **received** , 2:35 pm_

What have I done

_Text unsent, 2:37 pm_

 

Christ, Sherlock, I had no idea you felt that way

 _Text **sent** , _2:38 pm

 

I’m so sorry that you thought I didn’t want to talk to you because I DO

_Text **sent** , 2:38 pm_

I really, REALLy do

_Text **sent** , 2:38 pm_

I’m just….. not great at talking to people, especially those who I haven’t met

_Text **sent** , 2:39 pm_

And I’m even worse at talking to people who I really, really like even though sometimes it feels like I know nothing about them but I consider my friend anyway

_Text unsent, 2:40 pm_

But wait by your logic

_Text **sent** , 2:41 pm_

If you just hadn’t replied for a few more days then I would have stopped texting you (which isn’t true by the way I would have kept trying)

_Text **sent** , 2:42 pm_

So why did you reply???

_Text **sent** , 2:42 pm_

Because I don’t dislike texting you.

_Text **received** , 2:44 pm_

Well thank God because I really don’t dislike texting you

_Text **sent** , 2:44 pm_

And I won’t apologize for asking about your ballet practice I honestly just wanted to talk to you about it, but it’s okay that you don’t

_Text **sent** , 2:45 pm_

I just can’t help but wonder about it. Your dancing. When I saw you dance, it felt like I knew you, every inch of you. I know that’s impossible because we’ve never even met, but watching you was…… something else. You’re a brilliant dancer, absolutely brilliant.

_Text **sent** , 2:46 pm_

Wait no no  noonono no no no no

_Text **sent** , 2:46 pm_

I did not mean to send that no no I no fu

_Text **sent** , 2:46 pm_

Please please please don’t read that please

_Text **sent** , 2:46 pm_

 

John I

_Text **received** , 2:49 pm_

I don’t know what to say

_Text **received** , 2:49 pm_

Please just. Don’t say anything

_Text **sent** , 2:50 pm_

I’m sorry I need to go I’m sorry

_Text **sent** , 2:50 pm_

 

Oh God please don’t hate me

_Text unsent, 2:50 pm_

 

But I meant every word I wrote

_Text unsent, 2:51 pm_

DECEMBER 25TH

Merry Christmas, Sherlock. I like you. Very much…

_Text **sent** , 12:09 am_

And I’m glad you were in my life

_Text unsent, 12:09 am_

 

Even if you aren’t any more

_Text unsent, 12:09 am_

 

V

Loud music and enthusiastic voices filled John’s every sense as the liveliest New Year’s party in the history of lively New Year’s parties danced by before his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and watched with a fond detachment as the laughing, chatting, glowing people passed him by, drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces. John frowned at the realization that he had neither of those things, and so set off in search of something that would help him loosen up. Namely, a drink.

Christmas had been rubbish. John had gone to spend it with his family at their home, which sounded far more pleasant than it had been. Harry was in a difficult place at the moment to say the least, and their parents weren’t helping by constantly being at each other’s throats. A nice, ordinary Christmas dinner had turned into an ugly blend of passive-aggressive comments and awkward, angry silences that then morphed into a full blown shouting match as John and his sister excused themselves silently and waited for the storm to blow over in the relative safety of the spare room. The room that had once belonged to John, but had been pointedly emptied out after he’d left for university.

Needless to say, New Year’s was meant to be _his_ day, _his_ celebration that he had missed out on. After Christmas, he had hurried back to London, desperate for the familiar thrum of life that the city so dependably produced. When Mike Stamford had invited him to a party that he promised would have, in his words, “dancing, music and a shit ton of beer”, John had jumped at the offer. The only problem being, now that he was here, John had no idea what he was meant to be doing. Dancing didn’t appeal to him, but a drink would do him some good. Trying desperately not to think about Harry and her _problem_ , John made his way towards the makeshift bar that was really just a selection of coolers with as much beer as would fit, apart from the two bottles of really nice vodka that had been empty for at least an hour.

Grabbing a cool beer and taking a large gulp, John tried valiantly not to regret coming. The only people he knew here were Mike and a few of his rugby mates – everyone else was either a vaguely familiar face without a name or a complete stranger. To add injury to insult, the music was the kind of crap that had John heard it on the radio, he would have changed stations without a second thought. Plus, the beer tasted like piss. Still, never one to be bested by ugly odds and disgusting alcohol, John refused to admit defeat and soldiered on, determined to have a good time. And if that meant getting thoroughly hammered over the course of the evening, so be it. With a little shake of his head that was more confident than he felt, John turned towards the dance floor.

One look at the mass of moving, sweating bodies throwing themselves around and against one another quickly changed John’s mind.

A sudden desperation came over him, its cold grasp grabbing John’s hand in an icy grip and tugging him away from the energetic centre of the party. John felt like he was being pushed further and further away from the beating heart of the celebration that had brought him here in the first place. He fought back against the tirade of emotions that were kicking and screaming in his head. Awkwardness, loneliness, self-pity, hopelessness and an acute sense of un-belonging all attacked him until John’s determined resolve to have a good time was a fighting a war on more fronts than John cared to acknowledge that he knew he could not win.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be at home, studying and working, not trying to enjoy himself. He didn’t want to be here, and no one else wanted him there either. He couldn’t honestly expect to have a good time at a light-hearted, social event when the human connection he had been so desperately fond of had been severed because of his own stupidity.

John sighed. He wasn’t going to kid himself; he had been miserable ever since Sherlock had stopped talking to him. Life had been more than a bit less interesting, and John missed having someone to talk to. More than anything, he sorely regretted everything that he had (and hadn’t) told Sherlock about how John felt about him. His dancing, his texting, his being a constant and wonderful relief from everything else in John’s life.

And then there was the matter of John being completely and utterly unable to figure out exactly what he was feeling for Sherlock. The romantic in him was singing words of besotted infatuation, but a more realistic part of him knew that he simply needed someone to talk to, someone who the mere thought of could cheer him up. A friend. So of course the only natural outcome was for John to have gone and botched it up.

“John, you cheeky bastard, where’ve you been!” cried out a familiar voice. Said bastard turned to face its very loud, very drunk owner with a tired smile of relief on his face.

“Mike, there you are. Thought you’d given up on me to go get pissed with the rugby lads.” laughed John while shaking his head, trying to disguise the fact that all he wanted to do was ingest a heroic quantity of alcohol before stumbling home as soon as the new year had been ushered in by all the people feeling endlessly more festive than himself. That is, all of London, and probably the rest of the world too.

“I was going to,” Mike shouted over the throbbing music, “But then I saw you standing over here all alone, you poor bugger.”

A burst of anger that he knew was completely irrational but was red-hot nonetheless bubbled to the surface of John’s mind, twisting his face into an odd, irritated picture, like a painting hung squint on the wall of an art gallery. “I’m fine, Mike.” John said firmly, whether to reassure himself or his friend he didn’t know. “And I don’t need your pity.” He muttered darkly under his breath.

“Look, mate,” Mike drawled, trying to put together a sentence after a drink (or five) too many to even be thinking about forming a coherent statement, “I jus’ wan’ed ta know you were somewhere with an _atmosphere_ for New Year’s, ya know?” Mike smiled with an energy as lively as that of the party still going strong around them. Despite the foul mood lurking like a shark underneath his already ill-tempered demeanour, John found himself laughing at his drunken friend.

“Alright, Mike.” John smiled, and he suddenly felt lighter, as if a great weight had been taken off his tired shoulders. Maybe this night wouldn’t be such a disaster after all, he hoped to himself.

Mike just laughed, and turned back to re-join whoever his drinking buddies for the night were. He advanced by a couple steps before whipping back around to face John, almost losing his balance and stumbling back towards his sober friend, who had briefly considered hiding his laughter behind a polite cough but gave up when Mike took two giant strides right into him, knocking John off balance for a moment before he steadied them both. “John,” he said, more seriously than John would have thought possible for someone as drunk as him, “Come join us. Have a proper drink, cheer up!”

Ignoring the part of him that was cursing wildly at the thought of having to go talk to people, John plastered his most enthusiastic expression on his face before agreeing.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “why not?”

Mike nodded along with him for a second before springing backwards, exclaiming “That’s the spirit, Watson!” before dragging him to the other side of the large flat that belonged to what’s-his-face who was a friend of a friend of Mike’s that had been transformed into a convincing party venue, furniture pushed back and valuables stored safely away.

“Lads, look who’s here!” Mike shouted at a group of five or six boys that John had probably seen before but couldn’t be bothered to place. A drunken cheer greeted John, which was soon followed by someone pushing a fresh bottle of beer into his hand to replace the near-empty one that had been taken off him by someone else.

“So where the hell have you been all night, John?” Mike asked him, loudly. Shaking his head, John reminded him that they’d been here ‘less than a couple hours, Mike’.

“Yeah, but still.”

“To be honest, you should be more worried about how you’ve managed to get absolute hammered in about ninety minutes, mate.”

Hysteric laughter broke out amongst the group, including Mike (who was bent over forwards laughing, a fact which concerned John somewhat), and John began to relax.

“Truth is, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here after all, so I thought I’d wait it out in on the side-lines and leave once the clock struck twelve.”

The group response to this was, of course, hearty booing, and a cry of ‘Give the man another drink!’ which was quickly carried out. Mike just looked at him with an unreadable smile on his face. John turned to look him in the eyes. “What?”

“It’s just… you’re the second person to say that to me tonight.”

John frowned, looking around the room for people who seemed like they wanted to be elsewhere. “Who was the first?”

The same odd expression on his face, Mike led him to a pair of sliding doors that opened onto a veranda with a truly stunning view of London. The veranda was empty save for the silhouette of a single person. A single painfully, worryingly, brilliantly familiar person who may or may not have danced across John’s waking mind and peaceful dreams since he had first seen his elegant figure practicing those weeks ago. None other than—

“This is—”

The dark outline of a person spun around with all the grace of dancer to reveal the face of—

“Sherlock Holmes, and I don’t particularly care who you—”

He stopped mid-sentence. Wide-eyed, Sherlock looked from John to Mike then back to John. John stared back.

“I swear to God, I’m going to have to have at least three more drinks to forget the intense eye-fucking that is going on right now.” complained Mike, turning back to his group of friends whose heads spun around in an attempt to disguise their unabashed staring. “Another round before the New Year, yeah boys?” Mike yelled as he stumbled back. The offer was met with loud enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, John had forgotten that the world beyond Sherlock Holmes existed. Staring into his face felt so unreal that John was nearly sure that he was dreaming. Suddenly every unsent text, every fanciful thought, every spark of hope that this, whatever this was, could be real and was possible and literally _right there in front of him_ burned like a bonfire behind his eyes. Surprise and hurt at seeing Sherlock where promptly buried under the landslide of relief that John felt knowing that he could actually have a proper conversation with Sherlock, face-to-face. He could make it right and tell Sherlock… that he had meant every single word. That Sherlock was brilliant. That John wanted to know him, really know him, and that wherever that led, John wanted to follow.

“I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“I wish I’d told you—”

Both John and Sherlock fell silent as suddenly and simultaneously as they had started speaking. John shuffled in place, his feet unsure whether to hold his ground or carry him away. Sherlock looked like a deer in the headlights, blinking rapidly before clearing his throat. “Sorry, you first.” He apologized, staring at the ground.

“No, it’s alright Sherlock.” John said softly. “You go on.”

Sherlock lifted his head at the sound of his name, then stared at John like he had just grown a new one. Smiling what he hoped was kindly, John tried to convey his gentle but firm insistence in his gaze that hadn’t left Sherlock’s face since he had turned around. Apparently understanding what John wasn’t saying, Sherlock cleared his throat before continuing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your texts, after… well. After most of them, really.” Sherlock said quietly. “Too many of them, at any rate. I honestly didn’t think you cared. I mean, it would hardly be the first time that I’d driven someone away, it’s the only thing I know how to do where people are concerned other than deduce and manipulate and I know I’m not making a lot of sense so I’ll just stop. Talking.” The words fell out of Sherlock’s mouth quicker and quicker, as a distressed look took over his face. Sherlock stopped, taking a deep breath with his eyes closed. Which was probably a good thing, because John was sure that had he been looking at John, he would have seen his heart break for the beautiful boy standing in front of him. John clenched his hands in tight fists to stop himself from reaching out and hugging Sherlock until he realized that John did like him. Very much.

“Sherlock.” John began, taking a small step forward and closing the gap between himself and the boy in front of him. “I like you. I like talking to you and I like rereading your texts. I like trying to figure you out, even though I’m sure it’s impossible. I like your dancing. Actually, no. I _adore_ your dancing. I may only have seen a few moments of it, but believe me I have not forgotten them, and I only wish I’d told you that properly. So, there.” He finished awkwardly, making a very conscious effort not to run away. Again.

Sherlock looked at him the way John always imagined his own face looked when he remembered Sherlock’s dancing. That is to say, like he was looking right at the sun, afraid that its sheer brightness would blind him but too entranced to look away.

Suddenly, the outside world that had for a moment in time become nothing more than background noise in John’s mind came into sharp focus as the collective voice of the party goers inside began to count down.

“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!”

Sherlock continued to stare at him.

“Six! Five! Four!”

John stared back.

“THREE! TWO! ONE!”

In a sudden moment of clarity, John realized what to do next.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

The shout of celebration was punctuated by the sound of cheering and fireworks and Big Ben somewhere in the distance striking twelve as it celebrated with the people in the city below.

John, lost in Sherlock’s eyes, leaned forward to do what he had been dreaming of doing ever since Sherlock had danced his way into his life.

Fireworks exploded in the morning sky of a new year above the city of London as John Watson kissed Sherlock Holmes. He closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of Sherlock’s soft lips, and nearly broke away in shock when Sherlock began to kiss him back. Enthusiastically, none the less.

John smiled into the kiss and wrapped his arms around Sherlock in a tight embrace, and felt with a detached sort of euphoria Sherlock cupping his face with his gentle hands. Every doubt and every certainty, everything that John meant and everything that he knew he would not regret was poured into the kiss like a glass of water trying to fill an ocean, but somehow John knew Sherlock would understand. People cheered around them, and even though John knew that they were welcoming in the New Year, it felt like an appropriate gesture for the situation, because this was something worth celebrating. His stars had just aligned, and they were shining down on the brilliant, beautiful boy he was kissing. John kissed him for the first time like it was the last, because for all he knew it could be.

When they finally parted, John drew away only as far as he had to in order to see Sherlock’s face. Panting softly, Sherlock was the image of ‘just kissed’, stars in his eyes and all. Sherlock smiled at him. John smiled back.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it will be,” replied a still breathless Sherlock, “John.”

And from the way Sherlock said his name, John knew Sherlock was right.

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“There’s something I think you should know.” John began quietly, and immediately regretted his choice of words as Sherlock’s eyes widened in fear and altogether the wrong kind of anticipation. “No, it’s nothing bad, it’s just… there’s something I want you to know. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I just want to tell you that I…” John broke off, clearing his throat. He wasn’t sure that what he was about to say was what Sherlock wanted to hear, but it was what he needed him to know. It was, quite simply, how he felt.

“Sherlock Holmes.” John grinned, his smile sincere and just a little bit playful, “I like you. Very, very much.”

There was no hesitation before Sherlock’s reply. “I know.” Sherlock said, smiling back with a grin as wide as John’s.

“So do you maybe—”

“I like you too.”

“Okay. Good. Just checking.”

A moment of silence followed before both John and Sherlock burst out laughing, a sound that was nearly drowned out by the party going stronger than ever around them, but one that John would never forget.

Once their laughter had subsided, John realized they were missing a prime opportunity. With a soft ‘c’mere’ to Sherlock, he walked towards the banister on the veranda to gaze out on the lights of London, from those on the ground in the windows of buildings and in the uniform lines of streetlights to those in the sky, the fireworks that were in equal measure colourful and extravagant. Sherlock came to stand beside him, looking up at the sky with a stunning wonder that John knew then and there he would do anything to see again.

“We really are a whole new level of ridiculous, aren’t we?” speculated John aloud to himself and Sherlock and the city spread beneath them.

“That we are,” agreed Sherlock, “That we are.”

John laughed softly. He briefly considered kissing Sherlock again, but something told him there would be plenty of that this year. Instead, without looking at him, John took Sherlock’s hand in his own and squeezed slightly. He felt rather than saw Sherlock smile, and the joy was infectious.

It was going to be a good year.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [The Ultimate Johnlock Collaboration](http://theultimatejohnlock.tumblr.com/)'s first challenge based around Winter Holidays and it's been a joy to write, due mostly to my incredible, brilliant, fantastic partner [caressthosecheekbones](http://caressthosecheekbones.tumblr.com/), to whom this fic is dedicated. Thank you for everything, for your great ideas on which this story was more or less built and your endless support. [Here](http://caressthosecheekbones.tumblr.com/post/136763433817/thank-you-paleolithic-demitasse-for-your-beautful) is a link to the amazing graphic she made for this fic. <3
> 
> Thanks for reading, and a (slightly late) Happy New Year!


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